Naming a tavern Dive Bar is kind of like titling your novel American Epic or calling your band The Next Clash. In other words, announcing exactly what you intend to be sets up a lot of expectations and judgments that might otherwise be avoided. Because, while Dive Bar is a pleasant enough place, it's not really what I would call, you know, a dive bar.
Not that it doesn't try. The awkward layout, the cheap wood paneling, the mirror-backed bar, the Christmas lights—all are staples of the dive. But the clientele is more Swingers than Barfly, the barmaids more perky 'n' pierced than sullen 'n' slatternly. Step outside and you'll not find empty storefronts and liquor stores, but a strip mall beneath the looming façade of a Wal-Mart. The sign isn't sputtering neon, but bright orange plastic, with a marquee that is changed almost daily. Finally, the drinks aren't cheap—they're not expensive either, but in a true dive bar you can get a Budweiser for pocket change.
That said, if I hadn't been anticipating the sort of Lost Weekend hole I personally fancy, Dive Bar does offer a number of desirable features not normally found in such places. There's a kitchen with burgers, fries, steaks and other alcohol-soaking foods, as well as a well-stocked, Internet-connected jukebox. The main attraction is a full schedule of free entertainment. Recent acts have included a sideshow featuring a woman who shot darts out of her tootie, an "alternative rock" band so dire-yet-deafening that I shall spare them the shame of naming them and a Kiss cover band that had a very convincing Paul but a less-compelling Gene. (We do all understand that Gene Simmons glared and stomped and spit blood? He did not grin, bounce or shake his ass.) During the week, there are regular open-mike nights (stand-up and acoustic!), jam sessions, and most of the local punk rock bands have passed through already.
Maybe it's the bar's newness—it's been open for about five months—but there's a sense that Dive Bar almost seems to be taking on more than the space can hold. It seems a bit small for a bar, kitchen, stage and Saturday-night crowd: I once waited a solid 15 minutes to get a drink, and my companions and I had to wedge ourselves into a corner between the jukebox and the hallway amid a crowd that seemed like an askew version of the audience in a Strokes video.
Ultimately, Dive Bar is a welcome addition to the string of drinking establishments along Tropicana. And perhaps once they settle in and slack off a bit, when they get lazy about changing the sign and let a little gunk accumulate in the corners, after the jukebox slips a little out-of-date and some of the crowd moves on to the inevitable next and newest stop on the route, things will loosen up and mellow out a bit. And who knows? If Dive Bar is still there in a dozen years, it may live up—or down—to its name.
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ive Bar, 3035 Tropicana Ave., 579-4707
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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